


30 Ways to Say Goodbye

by lovelymartin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 day challenge, AU, Alternate Ending, Angst, Blood, Character Death, Complete, Concussions, Death, Deathfic, Fear, Gen, Hurt, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mind Palace, One Shot, Pain, Plan gone wrong, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach, Sherlock's Death, Sherlock's Mind, Stream of Consciousness, The Reichenbach Fall, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelymartin/pseuds/lovelymartin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort of 30 Day Challenge I'm doing for myself, only I'm probably not going to be able to post every day (but we'll see what happens).  Most will be angsty or sad, some might be Johnlock but most won't be, and they're all going to be fairly short one-shots.  I'll add more tags as I post more parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As I Lay Dying

**Author's Note:**

> He wasn't supposed to fall, not like this.
> 
> Post Reichenbach, sort of an AU or "what if" situation.

Agony.  Burning.  Heat of a million flames.  Panic.  Pain.

_I'm here._

No--no--

_Sherlock.  I'm here._

Pain--

_Sherlock!_

Struggling to open my eyes, blinking out the blood seeping into my vision.  Fiery pain, pain everywhere.  Easier to keep them closed.

_J-John--_

_I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here._

Sweat, blood, dirt, become one with the shrieking agony.  I'm ready to give up, to end this all, but my body is still struggling.  Just causes more pain.  Can't my damn heart just stop?

_Stay with me, Sherlock.  Please. Stay with me._

Right.  That's why it won't stop yet.  John.

It's all wrong.  Everything has gone wrong.  I wasn't supposed to fall, not like this.  There was--a truck...supposed to land on the truck.  How did I miscalculate?  And John wasn't supposed to get here.  Bike was supposed to hit him, slow him down.  Would make it easier if he's not here, holding my broken body...the doctors...where did they go?

_Sherlock...Sherlock, look at me.  Sherlock, don't leave me.  Sh-Sherlock..._

No--I can't...Bleeding out.  Darkness.

* * *

_Sherlock?_

Why...why does it still hurt? Numb.  Open my eyes, but I can't see.  Can't feel.  Can barely hear...it's all muffled.  Static?  

I think I'm in a hospital...

_John?_

I don't think he can hear me.  He might be holding me---I might be on a bed--can't feel anything.  I sense him.  Please end this.

_Sherlock, they can save you.  You'll be okay.  Don't leave me._

Waiting to die.  Waiting for my body to give up.  Don't--don't save me.  I can't be saved.  This has to end.  I need this to end.

Pain.  Beeping.  Heart monitor?  More pain.  I don't know if John's still there.  Cold.  Heat.

_Sherlock. Please._

What?

I'm losing my hearing now too.  Cold. Dying, I hope.  Nothing left but my mind.  That'll be gone too.  Numb.

Empty. Jumbled.  Nothing makes sense. Pain.

Can't sort out my thoughts anymore.

Holocaust? What? Fabric coming undone, mind palace crumbling, facts everywhere.  

1976\. What happened then?  18 million corpses.  Gravestones.  Zoo?  Gorilla...gorilla enclosure.  Mycroft.  

Jupiter...solar system.  Thought I deleted that.

Shut up Anderson.

Shock...blanket.  Cold war.  Triple...Triple Alliance?  Queen of England...crumpets. Evacuate.  Biohazard. Dysfunctional.

Afghanistan.  Lotus, Black Lotus.  Brick wall, they're pushing me.  Trains. Bones.  Skull.   _The_ skull.

Pink, scarlet.  Phone.  Yellow paint.  Tea...teapots.  Antique.  Circus.  Game.  Bomb.  Woman.  Sheets...cat.  Airplane, bodies.  Hound.

White walls, white lights.  Ears?  Painting.  Cuff links.  Jail, trial.  Code...Morse Code.  Building.  Screaming...maybe that's my own.

Apple.  IOU.  Angels.  Wings.  Blood. Pain.

1492?  Tape...Monkey, phone box.  Fez?  

Agony.  Numb. Cold.  Dark.  Kill me.

Numbers.  Binary.  Kill me.

Gray eyes, dark.  Blonde hair, sagging skin.  Kill me.

Tears.  Sweat.  Pain.  Kill me.

Life hurts, everything hurts.  Black eyes, gray eyes, blue eyes.  Kill me.

Taxi...taxi cab.  Gun.  Flames.  Blood.  Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

 **  
**_Goodbye._


	2. Grave Reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's the concussion talking, but John doesn't think he can hold out any longer.

After Sherlock fell, everything went dark.  John dimly remembers gloved hands, probably belonging to one of the paramedics, gripping him tightly as he sagged towards the ground, unable to tear his eyes away from the broken body.  But his vision was going dark, his head throbbing--he must have hit it when he crashed with the bike--black spots dancing in front of his eyes.  He was weak.  He doesn’t remember having screamed, but he probably did.  Finally he succumbed to the blackness.

* * *

When he awakens, it is light again.  It looks like he is in a hospital bed, but he doesn’t know why he’s there.  There’s a strange absence of nurses, and the air feels unusually heavy, like it’s pressing down on his body, constricting his throat and lungs as he sucks it in with ragged breaths.  He struggles to untangle himself from the sheets that have wrapped around him like a net, and tumbles out of the bed.  His head is still throbbing, but he needs to get out.  Upon standing, his vision goes blurry, and he sways a bit on the spot, pressing a sweaty palm against the wall to steady himself.  His leg is cramping up and, cursing under his breath, he limps to the door of the room.  Something feels off, a faded thought disconnecting itself from the others seems to suggest that someone has died, but he can’t remember who.  Struggling to remember, he drags himself into the hallway.

A nurse walks briskly by and, head swimming, John tries to smile at her.  He’s having trouble getting his facial muscles to cooperate, so it probably comes out more of a grimace, but she doesn’t even glance in his direction.  Everything sounds muted, disconnected, as if he is underwater.  He shakes his head quickly to clear it, but to no avail.  A woman he recognizes, clothed in white scrubs, enters the hallway, veering towards the doorway of John’s room when she sees him.  Sarah.

“How are you doing?” she asks softly, concern etched in her voice.  John rubs his forehead, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean..how are you dealing with--after... _him_?”

John just blinks at her with glazed, dark eyes.  “After who?”

Sarah shakes her head, muttering under her breath.  She looks at him long and hard, analyzing, and the frustration creases her forehead and lines her words.  “ _Sherlock_ , obviously.”

John just stares, then winces as the memories flood over him. _Hospital. Moriarty. Phone call. Sherlock, on the roof.  Arms wide, like a cross.  Falling._ “Shit.”

“You okay?”

John tears himself away, feeling the bile burn in his throat, and without a second thought begins to sprint out of the room, as if being pulled by someone, something.  He doesn’t know where he’s running, just that he needs to leave.  He finds himself at the intersection--he can’t remember the street name--and stands for a second, gasping for air, the wind from cars streaming by slapping his face.  It’s as if his legs are moving of their own accord now, pulling him into the street, not noticing the truck speeding towards him, the ear-splitting sound of the horn ringing in his ear, getting closer and closer...

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

For a second he thinks it’s Sherlock that’s gripping his arm, pulling him out of the truck’s way.  But no, he’s dead.  It’s Lestrade.  John can’t seem to form a reply, and Lestrade tugs sharply on his coat, pulling him onto the sidewalk.  

“John.  I know you’re upset, and probably not thinking too clearly right now.  But we still need you alive.  Come on.”

John stands numbly, watching as Lestrade hails him a taxi and speaks quickly to the driver.  The man nods and Lestrade practically shoves him into the back seat.

“You’re not coming?” John asks, stupidly.  Lestrade shakes his head, a strange look in his dark eyes.  

“I have to get back to the Yard.  But you go home, and don’t do anything stupid.”

* * *

Over the next week, John lives as if in a trance.  Mrs. Hudson fusses over him, unsurprisingly, but he always insists that he’s fine and retreats to his room.  The throbbing in his head never completely goes away, even with painkillers, and he can’t fully string thoughts together.  He doesn’t go to Sherlock’s funeral, despite Mrs. Hudson’s tearful urgings; he just can’t bring himself to get out and do anything _normal_.  He doesn’t eat much, hardly sleeps, just sits as if in a trance and tries not to grieve.  As the days drag by, a strange desperation fills him, and by the end of the week he is jittery and restless.  

“I--I need to get out,” he mumbles to Mrs. Hudson, and she sighs, forehead creased with worry.

“Alright, but don’t be gone too long.  And please, don’t do anything stupid.”

John nods, dimly wondering whether he’s heard that before, and as soon as he steps into the chill London air he is hit with a sudden frantic energy.  His mind still foggy, he hails a cab, not entirely sure where he’s going but somehow knowing he needs to get there _fast_.  His heartbeat feels like it’s gotten at least three times faster, his head throbbing more than ever, and for the first time since Sherlock’s fall he is on the verge of tears.

Somehow he ends up at the graveyard.  He isn’t sure how he even knows where Sherlock is buried, and he can’t remember telling the cabbie this address, but here he is.  He feels as if something dormant deep within him has awakened and is clawing at his chest, threatening to tear him apart from the inside.  Filled with sudden urgency, he almost sprints over to the fresh gravestone, smooth polished black, with _Sherlock Holmes_ carved in plain letters, and collapses at the foot of the stone.  Finally he allows the tears to spill over, and he’s shaking, convulsing with sobs.  When his eyes finally start to dry, his thoughts are even more jumbled than before.  He feels weak, empty, as if his body has finally realized his grief and has responded by sapping all his strength.  Maybe it’s just the concussion talking, but he doesn’t think he can hold out any longer.

He sits crosslegged in front of the still-fresh mound of dirt, eyes red and puffy, his once-blonde hair now more gray than anything else, and he stares, unblinkingly, at his reflection in the polished stone without quite seeing it.  He hadn’t before, but now he is finally starting to process the weight of Sherlock’s death.  No more blogging about the man who forgets his pants and shows up at Buckingham Palace in a sheet, no more sleepless nights as they run through the dark of London on some mad chase, no more staring at the surprisingly striking man as he rattled off a deduction, no more consulting detective and his blogger, no more _Sherlock and John_.  Now it is just John.  But not even.  He feels like Sherlock ripped out part of _him_ when he jumped off the roof, and now he’s only a fraction of what he once was.  As he tries to process all of this, the pain in his head intensifying, he realizes that more than anything, he needs Sherlock back.  Delirious with this new resolution, he springs to action.  

He finds a shovel that one of the gravediggers must have left sitting under a nearby tree and begins frantically digging at the mound of earth in front of the gravestone.  Almost immediately his body begins to protest--he is too weak, has gone for too long without nourishment--but he pushes through, digging with a crazed perseverance.  He isn’t sure what he will accomplish by digging up Sherlock’s body, or even if he’ll be able to do it without collapsing of overexertion, but anything seems better than this.  So he digs.  The sun begins to set, but he doesn’t care.  He just digs.  Soon his body is on the verge of collapse, but he ignores it and puts every ounce of energy towards moving that shovel, flinging layers of dirt in order to reach the remains of the man he needs so much.  He digs long into the night.

* * *

 

 **  
**The next morning, a gray calm is settled over the earth as the man walks slowly into the graveyard, shoes leaving shallow footprints as he pulls his coat tight around his slender frame.  Almost immediately he sees the grim scene and cautiously advances forward.  His eyes fall on John’s body, broken, collapsed, over an empty grave.  He fights the urge to crouch down, to touch his lifeless skin, and sighs.  He runs a hand through his hair instead; now a short dirty blonde, it feels so different from his former wild dark curls, but it was necessary.  As he stares at the scene, he is vaguely conscious of the tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them back.  He allows himself a silent moment to etch John’s final image into his memory and then, with a sigh, Sherlock Holmes turns and walks away.


End file.
